Masks
by Totenkinder Madchen
Summary: Losing his face brought Snake-Eyes low. He needs to regain control of his own life, and the mask will help him do that. It can make him something more than human. S/SE, drama/romance. Rating jumped to M. COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **So here it is. This story has been bothering me for weeks; honestly, I think it's one of the hardest things I've ever had to write. It's pretty much finished, but I still need to edit some pieces, so I'll be uploading one chapter every day or so from now on. Once this is finished, I'll be back with "Order Up," but this one just had to be written before I could get anywhere with Short Stack and company.

Note that Snake-Eyes' ASL will be a little more clunky and tentative than it normally is in my stories. This is because he's still learning; he doesn't even begin to know all the signs, and will spell words he can't say otherwise.

Also: Happy Fourth of July! Celebrate it the way the Founders would have wanted: with ninja.

**Rating:** T for now. Will be jumped to M in later chapters. You have been warned.

**Disclaimer:** G.I. Joe and all associated characters and concepts are property of Hasbro Inc., and I derive no profit from this. Please accept this in the spirit with which it is offered—as a work of respect and love, not an attempt to claim ownership or earn money from this intellectual property.

This story is dedicated to CrystalOfEllinon, TiamatV, and willwrite4fics: the holy trinity of S/SE. Thanks, guys.

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**Masks**

_by Totenkinder Madchen_

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Life was almost back to normal. As normal as it could be for a secret antiterrorism unit, anyway.

It had been more than six months since the helicopter accident. The team had been moved to their new permanent base under Fort Wadsworth—camouflaged by, of all things, the chaplain's assistants' motor pool. It was still partially under construction, and with only seven Joes and a few greenshirts rattling around the place, it didn't feel like home. General Hawk had privately told his team that several of the greenies were about ready to be promoted to Joe status, which should take some of the pressure off the original seven, and that several more outside specialists from the other branches would be recruited within the next year. Clutch was absolutely ecstatic to learn that they'd be getting a tank driver.

In that sort of life, change becomes routine. Snake-Eyes . . . well . . . he'd always been quiet, hadn't he? He'd lurked at the edges, usually with his hat pulled down over his eyes. Now he was just quieter. Right?

At least, that was what they told themselves. It was no secret, though, that his new face disturbed some of them. It wasn't that they were scared of him—far from it. They were all buddies, and had hauled each others' fat out of the fire too many times—but when a brother-in-arms suddenly looks like nothing human any more, it can be hard to adjust to. Snake-Eyes himself said nothing about the matter, but he took to wearing ski masks and would fade back into the shadows if anybody entered a room he was in.

Because of his new difficulty, General Hawk was forced to make a few tactical decisions. There was no possible world where having the ninja around would actually be _troublesome_; he was far and away the deadliest of the team members, after all. But between the face and the voice, he could no longer be deployed in jobs requiring civilian interaction. Before, Snake-Eyes had been a good background man, since he was quiet and inobtrusive and could bump into somebody in the street and slip a bug into their pocket without breaking stride. Now, he would have to be full stealth or full combat: even if they made him the best prosthetics in the world, people were likely to remember a mute man.

Snake-Eyes took this with apparent equanimity. He had always spent a lot of time deep in his own thoughts, and he knew that Hawk's decision was a practical one. There would be no getting around the fact that it hurt what pride he allowed himself. The thought that someone might not have the undercover backup they needed, just because he couldn't hide in plain sight any more, bothered him deeply. But if he had been the kind of man who bemoaned what he couldn't change, he wouldn't have bandaged up his blistered, mutilated face and gone on with the Strawhacker rescue. If he was going to be a liability on some duties, then it was his responsibility to make sure that he was absolutely unstoppable on others.

With no other options, he had begun learning ASL. It was quicker than writing things down, freed up space in his equipment pouches for more throwing stars rather than a pen and paper . . . and if it, too, gnawed at his pride, then he had the advantage of his bandaged face to keep anybody from realizing.

Maybe it helped, just a little, that Snake-Eyes was alone.

Not _literally. _The base was barely at one-eighth capacity, but there were six other full Joes, plus General Hawk and the greenshirt brigade—and not to mention the people that kept the personnel fed, the place cleaned, and the hydraulic lifts oiled and well-maintained. Technically speaking, he was never actually alone. But Snake-Eyes had always willingly separated himself from crowds, choosing to stand by a chosen few—Tommy, Lonzo, and more recently Scarlett. Hell, even in the high Sierras he hadn't been completely isolated: Timber was surprisingly good company for a creature whose major motivations were 1) food and 2) more food. Now, though, he had separated himself from even those few.

Lonzo . . . Lonzo had tried to be a buddy. But his idea of cheering someone up was acting like nothing had ever happened, an approach that smacked of trying too hard for a ninja who could detect the tracker's tiny signs of unease. That kind of thing was bound to be irritating, and it frayed Snake-Eyes' nerves to spend too much time with him. As for Tommy—Tommy was long gone. Maybe dead now. His ex-friend didn't bear thinking about.

Right now, the only person in his corner was Scarlett, and that was an issue that left Snake-Eyes with decidedly mixed feelings. Before the accident, there had definitely been something there: a touch, a smile, and later, a few stolen kisses that had left both of them gasping a little. He had had a dream about her once, and had almost pounded his head against the wall afterwards in the realization of what was happening to him. Falling for a teammate, Snake-Eyes? Really?

Then . . . Scarlett's web gear had gotten trapped in the door. The burst of burning fuel. The pain that still lurked under his skin, months later. They hadn't touched since.

During his time in the hospital, he'd hated her. Every Tuesday was debriding day, a horrific and painful process, and each time they peeled another layer of charred skin off his mangled face he wished he'd never met her. Scarlett has visited as often as she could, sitting by his bedside and trying to get him to talk . . . She'd always been like that, seeking him out and trying to make him open up. At the time, it hadn't been welcome. But as the skin began to knit together and the debriding sessions stopped, Snake-Eyes' resentment had begun to fade a little as well. Now they sometimes spoke, her as bright as ever with her soft Georgia accent, him slow and tenuous as he fumbled his way through the basics of sign language.

They could be friends, now—of a sort. They worked well together. But as for where they stood on what they'd had before . . . Snake-Eyes didn't know. He didn't want to think about it, on some level. Making the effort to develop relationships had been difficult before, when he was just the quiet sort; now there was so much more to work through. And if he caught himself turning every time he saw a flash of red hair out of the corner of his eye . . .

God damn it.

* * *

There was a small nick in his _ninjato. _Puffing out a breath of annoyance under his ski mask, Snake-Eyes settled cross-legged on the bed with the weapon and a sharpening kit. The cloth of his BDUs pulled strangely against his scars as he sat: patches of his body had almost no sensation at all, and when a scarred place was numb, the area immediately next to it had heightened sensation. His skin prickled a little as he scratched at his shoulder, annoyed.

At that moment, though, he got the message he'd been waiting for all day. The intercom crackled. "Snake-Eyes to the supply depot, quartermaster's office . . . repeat, Snake-Eyes to the supply depot . . . "

Finally. With a sigh, he put down the damaged _ninjato_, making a mental note to finish the sharpening later. The supply division had put its best people on finding Snake-Eyes a new set of equipment, and he'd been promised that it would be no later than today. Good. If he was going to be full stealth, then he needed better equipment than BDUs and a worn olive-drab ski mask, especially since the mask didn't cover everything and itched like hell. He retrieved a pair of diving goggles from his footlocker and snapped them into place, making sure that the mangled skin around his eyes was covered before he set foot in the hall.

The few greenshirts currently on base had gotten used to him, and they didn't flinch too badly as he jogged past. Breaker was coming out of the main server room with his hands full of wires, and waved to Snake-Eyes when he spotted him. The ninja responded with a shrug of the shoulders and moved on. Breaker hadn't known Snake-Eyes too well before the accident, which probably made it easier to adjust. Too bad Snake himself couldn't adjust that easily.

The head quartermaster, with supreme authority over all equipment issued to the troops of the Pit, was a newly-transferred veteran with the monicker of Storage Vault. He'd come into the Pit supremely at ease and totally in command, but Snake-Eyes guessed that he was starting to have some trouble: there were dark circles under his eyes, and the formerly confident smile had developed a twitch in one corner. When the ninja arrived in his office, though, he didn't do more than jump a little. Possibly because this time, Snake-Eyes actually used the door.

"Sgt. Snake-Eyes," he said, nodding in a businesslike fashion. "We've assembled your new gear." Two junior quartermasters followed Snake-Eyes into the office, carrying locked black boxes that looked for all the world like stereo equipment. "We've never had to equip a ninja before, so I have to admit it was a bit of a challenge. Fortunately, we managed to get our hands on some experimental equipment being developed by a diving company." Storage Vault's eyes narrowed, just a little. "Now obviously, 'experimental' means 'rare' and therefore 'expensive.' I trust, sergeant, that you'll take good care of this gear?"

Snake-Eyes shrugged a little.

"That doesn't exactly fill me with confidence, sergeant. But General Abernathy says 'jump,' so . . . " He gestured to the first of the junior quartermasters, who set his case down on the desk and unlocked it. Storage Vault flung up the lid with a flourish and produced . . . something. It was a bundle of liquidy black fabric that seemed to absorb the light, showing only the faintest blue highlights where the gleam of the office fluorescents was strongest. Snake-Eyes raised an eyebrow behind his ski mask.

[Is-] ASL failed him, as it still often did these days, so he settled for spelling out the word. [S-K-I-N-S-U-I-T?]

"Experimental model, developed for Navy frogmen in hostile waters. Low-friction, but a good tough polymer weave." Storage Vault tossed him the bundle. "Nice, isn't it? Reacts to ambient light; looks dark in direct light, but blends easily in even just a bit of shadow. It's still cloth, though; it won't stop bullets or more than a decent knife. Think you can manage to dodge?" Snake-Eyes gave him a look, and Storage Vault swallowed and fumbled in the case again. "That's a yes, I take it. All right—there's three of these suits. See the buckles on the arms and legs? Those are for your equipment belts." He fished out a neatly-rolled bundle of straps and short belts. The fasteners were metal, but with surfaces coated in plastic to reduce shine. "Here they are . . . got you a baldric for your swords, too." He held up the largest strap.

[B-A-L-D-R-I-C?]

"Antiquated term—shoulder strap. It's considered a dramatic kind of descriptor, but those of us in the support divisions feel justified using it when we're equipping ninjas." Storage Vault aimed a wry look at him. "This one goes over the right shoulder, but we've got left-shouldered models too if you need it. It's tested up to an eighty-pound weight." He continued on, not missing a beat as the other quartermaster opened up the second case. "Boots . . . Had a hell of a time finding those, incidentally. The Pentagon is going to love the bill for this equipment. Four pairs—try not to break 'em too fast. Gloves—suede with high-friction patches on the fingertips and palm. Ten pairs.

"And the mask."

Snake-Eyes paused in his examination of the baldric. Storage Vault was slipping something out of a plastic sleeve.

It was matte black, the same as the skinsuit. Instead of separate goggles, there were lenses stitched directly to the fabric. Narrow slits, almost invisible, had been cut and underlaid with thinner dark fabric so that he could breathe. It looked . . . intimidating.

Putting down the baldric, he reached out and plucked the mask from Storage Vault's hand. It was sleek and mouthless, almost mechanical. It wouldn't betray his expressions. Even better, though, it looked like—like something _more, _was the only way he could think of it. The slick inhumanity of the mask trumped whatever wreck of a face might be underneath it. He breathed out, feeling the warmth of his breath against the wool of his plain ski mask, and looked into the dark lenses.

He wasn't sure if he liked it. But it was much better than what he had before.

Storage Vault was watching him nervously, clearly uncertain of what he was thinking. Snake-Eyes knew he had always had that effect on people. Masked, though . . . A balaclava and goggles looked like he had something to hide. A skinsuit, a mask, black gloves, a sword strapped to his back—those made it all look deliberate. Made him something to hide _from. _

Snake-Eyes could live with that.

[Good,] he signed slowly, taking his time to make sure each word was the correct one. [I will take them now.]

Storage Vault might have breathed out, just a little. Snake-Eyes didn't really care. He was looking at the mask again. He signed for the equipment and left, carrying the two heavy cases with an ease that was almost more frightening than the persona he was about to adopt.

Back in his room, he unlatched them again and considered the new gear. The tight suit seemed ridiculous in concept: a superhero costume, something a little too Hollywood-ninja to be believable. In strong, direct light, it looked liquid-black-too black, possibly creating a dark patch that could indicate his presence. But it slid on like a second skin, and melted into the shadows as effortlessly as Snake-Eyes did. No rustle of fabric would betray him, the way the BDUs did, and without strong light it lost its inky contrast and became simply a dark costume. He silently congratulated those frogmen on the equipment being developed for them.

The boots, unfortunately, still had a bit of a shine on them—the hazard of using leather. He could buff that out with a little work. The gloves fit beautifully, and the belts took the weight of his accustomed knives and grenades with no trouble. He packed the utility belt with a small selection of basics (lockpick kit, blowgun kit, darts, garotte wire, concertina wire, throwing stars, and a bit of poison just because), settled one of his favorite katana on his back, and picked up the mask. It slid on noiselessly.

There were no mirrors in his room. There had been one in the small bathroom attached to it, but Snake-Eyes had "accidentally" broken it during his first week out of the hospital, and somehow Maintenance had never gotten around to fixing it. Imagine that. He glanced down at himself, feeling the smooth slide of the skin-suit, considering his own newly black-clad figure. He looked . . . different, that was for sure.

Oh, well. Time to become reacquainted with the team.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Chapter two. Sorry for the shortness of this one, but I'm breaking up the story into chunks where it feels most natural, and there wasn't another reasonable pause for another six thousand words or so. Another chapter forthcoming in a day or two.

**Rating:** T for now. Will be jumped to M in later chapters. You have been warned.

**Disclaimer:** G.I. Joe and all associated characters and concepts are property of Hasbro Inc., and I derive no profit from this. Please accept this in the spirit with which it is offered—as a work of respect and love, not an attempt to claim ownership or earn money from this intellectual property.

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**Chapter Two**

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Lonzo was in the weight room, benching his own weight with Clutch as his spotter. Snake-Eyes knew they never saw him: when you've trained on the nightingale floors of the Hard Master's dojo, something as simple as a brightly-lit weight room with no real cover was easy enough. He slipped from machine to machine, using the tiniest patches of dimness, and let himself slip into place right behind Clutch. Then, making sure to be ready in case one of them dropped something, he tapped the driver on the shoulder.

The reaction was colorful and oddly gratifying: Clutch jumped, squawked like a startled pigeon, glanced around, spotted what appeared to be a figure of black death looming over him, half-pulled into a defensive crouch while reaching for the sidearm that he didn't have, and almost strangled Stalker in his attempts to climb over the weight bench while Lonzo was still on it. Lonzo let out a yell, barely managing to ground the weight before dodging Clutch's tennis shoes. "The hell-" he began, twisting on the bench to see what had spooked Clutch so badly. His mouth dropped open.

Snake-Eyes was still human. He felt a tiny spark of glee as he raised a hand and casually signed [Hello, guys.]

"What in the sam hill—_Snake-Eyes?"_ Lonzo said, wiping the sweat from his forehead. Clutch, now on the other side of the weight bench with a bar clutched in both hands, straightened up and tried to look as casual as possible. "Why the hell you dressed like that, my man? You scared the bejeezus out of us!"

Snake-Eyes shrugged, but didn't apologize. [Just want K-N-O-W if you need new S-P-O-T-T-E-R.] His nonchalance was somewhat spoiled by his still-tentative command of ASL, but Stalker and Clutch never need know that. Clutch was still white-faced, after all: he didn't speak sign.

"Friggin' _ninja, _man," the New Jerseyan muttered, putting down the bar.

Lonzo was harder to fool: he wasn't easily scared, and he definitely wasn't buying the casual attitude. "That your new gear?" he said. Snake-Eyes nodded. "Damn. Did you get yourself renamed Boogeyman or something? The damn terrorists are gonna be pissing themselves when they see you lookin' like that."

[That is point,] Snake-Eyes signed. [B-E-S-T gear for silent walking.]

"You scared us, Snake," Lonzo said. "There a reason you're sneaking around the place like this?"

He gave his friend a critical once-over, and Snake-Eyes felt a twinge of remorse at his onetime buddy's expression. The new mask hid his expression better than the old one, and he knew Lonzo couldn't see that he was grimacing a bit. All right, alarming them might not have been the best way to go. But he had to admit . . . all right, he'd done it because he wanted to.

The Soft Master used to tell him about that. _To be a ninja is to be stronger than many other people, _he would say. _Against them, it will seem that you are always in control. But the best of ninja do not take this for granted. The ninja who is arrogant in his confidence will become angry when he loses control—as he inevitably will. _

But . . . hell. It felt good to be back in power.

Snake-Eyes didn't apologize, just shrugged again. [Practice,] he said. [Test new gear.]

_Yeah right, _said Lonzo's expression.

_Prove me wrong, _said Snake-Eyes' silence.

With his new, expressionless facade, it would be impossible for what was left of Snake-Eyes' face to give him away. He knew it, and Lonzo knew it too. His friend settled for giving him a strange look—half annoyed, half-worried. Annoyed the ninja could deal with, but worried was becoming depressingly familiar. Without another sound, he stepped into the shadows at the edge of the gym. Even he couldn't fade completely, and definitely not in a well-lit room like this, but there were other ways to make an exit. Half in shadow, he knew he looked like nothing human. Lonzo grimaced and looked away.

It was a petty piece of revenge, but he had his reasons for it. Snake-Eyes was not the kind of man who was used to feeling helpless; ninjas rarely are. But after too many long weeks in the hospital, watching as the remains of his face were scraped away, he was finally beginning to regain some control over the world. He was almost as strong as he ever had been, General Hawk was ready to put him back in the field, and his new uniform made him a nightmare rather than a person. The Soft Master would disapprove, but Snake-Eyes enjoyed—just a little—the effect his gear created. This time, he would be terrifying them on purpose. He was back in control.

And of course, he owed it to the quartermasters to thoroughly test this new gear. This was his justification for what happened over the next three hours.

First port of call was the greenshirt barracks. Half-a-dozen greenies had been assigned to clean the place out, but in absence of a superior officer, were neglecting their duties in favor of a hand of five-card stud and the kind of gossip that soldiers everywhere are prone to. Snake-Eyes crept to the door, waited until PFC Hobart won the hand (and shouted jubilantly at the same time, thus covering the noise of the hinges), slipped through as neatly as an eel, crept up on the circle while they were distracted by the new deal, and materialized between PFCs Robinson and Hart just in time for the dealer to drop his cards in shock, accidentally revealing five kings.

Breaker was surprised in the supply depot, where Snake-Eyes caught him stealthily depositing a wad of chewed gum on the underside of a desk. The techie about had a heart attack when Snake-Eyes appeared, a grim figure of death pointing to the 'Workers Must Keep their Area Clean at All Times' sign.

In retrospect, Snake-Eyes wondered whether it might have been less his sudden appearance than the revelation that he had a sense of humor which caused Breaker to almost choke on his Bubble Yum.

And so it went on, down the roster. Grunt, Zap, Rock 'n' Roll—all found themselves receiving unwelcome visitations. Only Hawk was spared the indignity: Snake-Eyes was injured, not insane or stupid. (And anyway, he wasn't even sure if he _could _scare the Tomahawk. His time with the unit had been relatively short, but he knew when he was up against a man made of solid steel.) In a way, it was a lot like the Dubuque County Haunted Cornfield, back when he was sixteen. Pop out, scare somebody, disappear again. Good clean fun.

The problem was, though, that there was one name left on his list.

He found her in the Pit's smallest dojo. She was standing at the bar, wearing bike shorts and an Army-issue tank top, her brassy hair pulled up in a skewed knot and darkened with sweat. As he watched, she bent over and leaned slowly into a smooth split, and Snake-Eyes flinched a little. Spooking friends and co-workers was one thing, but it took on a new dimension when the one he was silently watching happened to be Shana O'Hara. He felt like a voyeur, and it wasn't a comfortable sensation.

For a moment, Snake-Eyes considered withdrawing. He'd been haunting the Pit for hours now, and he knew for a fact that the greenshirts and support personnel were properly terrified. The gear had already proven itself in every possible climbing and sneaking test he could devise on short notice. And he'd certainly have to answer some questions from his CO come morning . . . shouldn't he just chuck the whole plan right now?

As he watched, Scarlett rose to her feet and raised her fists. Weight balanced, one hand protecting the face while the other was raised and ready to strike—a basic fighting stance. There was no reason for him to pay attention to that; he'd seen that kind of thing a thousand times, and mastered far more complex forms. But Snake-Eyes remained motionless in the shadows, observing silently as she swiveled her body. He recognized the motion instantly: yes, the swing of the hips, the way the foot pivoted and the toes arched . . . crescent kick, if he ever saw one. But even as the elegantly circling leg reached the top of its arc, there was a flare of strength along the limb, the muscles clenched, and Scarlett brought the bladed foot snapping down onto the mat. Crescent kick became axe kick. Swooping elegance truncated in a moment of sharp violence. Snake-Eyes had the sinking feeling that it was some kind of metaphor, but for what he didn't want to imagine.

Any longer and he'd be driving himself insane. Best to just get it over with. But frightening—no, that was cheap. Good for old 'Nam buddies, bad for Scarlett. Glancing around, Snake-Eyes put a hand on the door of the dojo and turned the knob, just enough to make the lock mechanism click. Though her back was to him, her shoulders tensed, and he knew she was now listening.

"All right," she said after a moment's silence. There was a touch of weary humor in her voice. "I can pretend to be scared, if you'd like. But if you want me to run screaming like PFC Dwyer, you'll have to give me a rain check . . . I pulled a ligament yesterday and our no-good alleged medic has me strictly confined to a walking speed." And, crossing her arms, she pivoted on her heel and stared him in the face.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** I can say, without exaggeration, that this chapter is the most difficult piece I've ever written for this fandom so far. Holy romantic tension, Batman! Please forgive any screwups; they're unintentional, I promise.

There should be two more chapters to this—one proper chapter and an epilogue. Again, look for the next one in about two days.

**Regarding the extent of Snake-Eyes' injuries, as described in this chapter:** I own up to altering some things. I did get previously criticized for putting in things that weren't mentioned in canon (namely, support personnel) but I justify those the same way I justified this—given the evidence presented to us, this result is logical. We very, very rarely get a look at Snake-Eyes' injured face, and even when we _do_, it's already been established in the timeline that he's already been given plastic surgery. Looking at the accident in the comics, we can see that most of his scalp was at least partially protected by his helmet (which explains how he can still have hair) and he had his left side to the window; ergo, the left would have been more damaged than the right. Not enough to create a Two-Face effect, but there would be a difference. And both sides would look absolutely awful. Think Deadpool.

Plus . . . to be honest . . . the few times they've tried to show it, the result has been underwhelming. The Baroness once put a bag over a captured Snake-Eyes' head because _his face was making them sick. _The injuries have to be much more severe than we've seen, especially only a few months after the accident.

_Dekai guzu_: Japanese, "big idiot." You pick up things, training with a ninja clan.

**Rating:** Now jumped to M. Seriously, nobody should be surprised by now.

**Disclaimer:** G.I. Joe and all associated characters and concepts are property of Hasbro Inc., and I derive no profit from this. Please accept this in the spirit with which it is offered—as a work of respect and love, not an attempt to claim ownership or earn money from this intellectual property.

* * *

**Chapter Three**

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Scarlett didn't spook easily, and someone who didn't know her very well might not have caught the depth of her reaction. But Snake-Eyes did: a spasm passed across her face, and her blue eyes widened just a little as they caught sight of him. She opened her mouth, stopped, closed it again, and let out a breath.

"Snake," she said. Another breath. Her lips were tense and white. "It looks . . ." She shook her head. _"Horrible."_

That was . . . it wasn't the word he'd been expecting.

"Please, take it off," she said. Her eyes were fixed on his, but he knew she was talking about the mask. Of course—she couldn't see his eyes now, not through the tinted eyepieces. "Please. Get rid of it, Snake."

[Why?] he signed carefully, sliding out of the shadows. [It is good gear.]

She mopped the sweat of her working out of her eyes with one hand. The awkward knot of her hair was beginning to fall out of place, flopping back onto her neck and sticking to her skin. Her voice was low, and Snake-Eyes thought he caught a note of uncertainty in it.

"It doesn't look human, Snake. Did you really . . . did you ask for that?"

[No. But I L-I-K-E it.] Suddenly self-conscious, he tried to find something to do with his hands, and settled for crossing his arms. It only occurred to him a moment later that that posture wouldn't be doing anything to ease Scarlett's nerves, and he dropped his arms again, fingering his utility belt uncomfortably. He saw Scarlett's eyes flick over him, noting his uneasiness, and her lips tightened a little. She was almost as uncomfortable as he was. [Don't you?]

"I don't," she said. "It makes you look like a . . . thing. You're not a _thing._" Scarlett tucked a loose lock of hair behind her ear, fingering the strand nervously. "You're a person. But if you spend all your time dressed like that, sneaking around, as well as being a ninja—people will start forgetting you are. It makes you into something else."

[That is what I L-I-K-E. It is good for P-S-I-] He stopped, frustrated with his fingerspelling, and tried again. [P-S-Y-C-O-L-G-] A silent curse, and he abandoned the word. [It scares people.]

Tommy should have been there. He would have seen the humor in his awful spelling, and probably made Snake-Eyes laugh about it, too. Under some circumstances, Scarlett might have done the same. Now, though, she made a face.

"I understand psychological tactics, Snake-Eyes." She shifted a little, crossing her own arms and moving just a little bit closer, as cautious as if she expected him to flinch away. He didn't, but he thought about it. The last time they had been this close, he had had a ka-bar in hand, and her web gear was trapped in the door.

"But I don't think it's a good idea to spend all your time as a symbol, Snakes," she added softly. "Intel knows all about making a show, scaring our enemies, intimidating informers, all those kinds of things. It's a good strategy. But if people spend too long as tactical pawns, they stop being people."

Snake-Eyes shook his head a little. [Not true,] he signed. He couldn't quite think _why _it wasn't true, but he wasn't in the mood to argue about psychology.

Worse, this wasn't the reaction he'd been hoping for from Scarlett. Scaring 'Lonzo and the other guys was, well, fun. Training. Getting his own back a little. Whatever he wanted to call it, it didn't have any real impact on how he felt or the way he spent his day. But if he wanted to be honest, he'd hoped that—some people—might be a little more open once he had the new mask. It was supposed to help put him above the accident and its painful aftermath, bring him back to the level of unstoppable ninja commando. And she was telling him to _get rid of it?_

"Isn't it?" Her eyes met his again, and she stepped back a little, giving him space. "Look, Snakes. Just . . . don't hide, all right?"

[Why not? Good T-A-C-T-I-C. I am a ninja.] The sign he used was one of the ten variants of the word _ninja, _based on the motions of the _kuji-no-in. _This one was _retsu, _"ninja who considers the discussion closed." Scarlett was the only one who knew the translations of all ten signs (she had helped him work them out, after all) and her gaze hardened as she caught its meaning.

"Yes, you're a ninja. You're also a human being. And I hate to sound like a nag, Snake-Eyes, but what you've been through is-" The redhead's voice faltered for just a moment "-unbelievable." The word seemed inadequate. "The doctors in the burn ward told me you wouldn't meet with a psychiatrist. But everybody needs to talk to someone sometime. After my dad's accident-"

Snake-Eyes gladly gave up awkwardness and tension in place of anger. [They told you?] he signed, his movements sharp and jerky. One thing he missed about having a voice: he could no longer shout. [That is P-R-I-V-A-T-E!]

"I was Hawk's representative, and I asked. G.I. Joe has power of attorney, remember? It does for all of us who don't have next of kin." Snake-Eyes' fists clenched involuntarily, and her eyes widened, but she didn't back down. "And I was _worried _about you! I was only concussed, but the medics pulled me off the mission anyway. You did the whole thing with third-degree burns!"

[P-R-I-V-A-T-E!] Snake-Eyes retorted furiously. [I do not N-E-E-D H-O-V-E-R-I-N-G teammates!]

"Here's a cliché for you, Snake-Eyes. 'No I in team.'" Her lips pursed. "Because we're your teammates, we care about whether you're being taken care of. If you decide to withdraw too far, turn yourself into some kind of angel of death, then yes, I'm going to worry!"

[Not your business,] he signed shortly. The close fabric of the mask scraped oddly as he grimaced underneath it, and for a moment, it felt stifling. [Nothing to do with you.]

"_It was my fault!" _Scarlett snapped. She was close to him again, almost sticking her face in his. Her face was drawn and white. "If I hadn't been in that copter, you wouldn't have been hurt! It IS my business, no matter what you want to think!"

There. She'd said it. Exactly what he'd been thinking during those hospital stays. If the two of them hadn't been there. If she hadn't been there. If he hadn't been falling for her. Too many _ifs. _But just whose fault was it? On a debriding day, the answer was always easy. Yet Snake-Eyes had to admit that he had been hoping the mask would . . . if they could talk again, maybe . . .

Hell.

Regain control? He was acting like a five-year-old. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to let go of the anger, and closed his eyes for a moment behind the tinted eyepieces. There were basic meditation techniques that had become almost second nature to him, and now he ran through the patterns in his mind.

As he calmed, he realized something. That was twice now that she'd made that distinction. Not _we _were worried. _I _was worried.

[It is my life,] he signed as he opened his eyes. Scarlett was watching him warily. He knew that he had only paused for a second or two, but Shana O'Hara was the second-best martial artist on the base, and he knew she could tell that something had changed. [Scarlett,] he added, [you are W-O-R-R-Y-I-N-G for nothing. I will be fine.]

There seemed to be something more he could say, but he couldn't for the life of him think of how to express it, especially not with his limited sign language. [I will be fine,] he repeated briskly. [I L-I-K-E masks.]

Her eyes flicked over his face again, and Snake-Eyes had the feeling that he was being X-rayed. The blue gaze lingered on the mask.

"Then let me say," she said quietly, "that I'm sorry. I'll always be sorry. But thanks."

That surprised him. [W-H-A-T?] he said, momentarily forgetting the proper sign for it. [W-H-A-T say?]

"It's true." Scarlett offered him a wry grin, though there wasn't any humor in it. "I _am _sorry, you know?" She clasped her hands behind her back, clearly as unhappy as Snake-Eyes had been only a few minutes before. "There's no way I can make it sound sincere. It's just a couple of syllables. But it's true." She shook her head. "I'm sorry. But I'm still thankful."

[T-H-A-N-K-F-U-L?] Snake-Eyes repeated carefully. For a moment he felt the anger rise again, but common sense clamped down on it after a split second. He had an idea of what she meant. She needed to say it.

And she did. "For saving my life," she said. Her face looked pale, and there was a nervous tremor in her voice that anyone who didn't know her well would never have detected. She was controlling herself masterfully. "I'm sorry, and I'm always going to be sorry, because you got hurt and because I'm happy that you went back for me." She bit her lip, an unconscious gesture. "I can't . . . I know there's nothing worse than being happy that someone else had something like this happen to them. But you were hurt because you saved my life. And I . . . and my parents . . ." She shook her head. "I'm sorry, Snake-Eyes. But thank you."

Her parents. Her parents ran a dojo, Snake-Eyes remembered. Her father was in a wheelchair now, but that didn't seem to diminish his energy any. There was a whole pack of siblings, cousins, and offspring, and the verbal picture that Scarlett had painted of them was of a loud, energetic mob that forcibly smothered you with Southern hospitality and held their black belt ceremonies on the lawn when the weather was nice. The few times he'd been to mail call (retrieving only a couple of magazines, or an item he'd ordered from Japan) he would see Scarlett, grinning over photographs sent by one of her brothers or opening a care package from a favorite aunt. He could imagine what would happen if there were no Shana O'Hara to receive those packages. A burial, maybe at Arlington, and a flag for the mantel were poor compensation.

What did the guilt look like from her end? If he accepted that it was her fault—and some part of him, he knew, still knew that to be true—then she could have been given the option of dying. His face, her life. He blamed her. So did she.

The man known as Snake-Eyes had had parents of his own. A sister. If they hadn't been coming to meet him at the airport, only a few years before, then they would still be alive.

There were too many complications here. Too much for him to manage, all at once. Right then, standing in the dojo with a guilt-wracked Shana O'Hara, seeing her knot of hair uncoil into a sweat-soaked ponytail, Snake-Eyes only had a few certainties in his life. So he went over his next few words carefully in his head, making sure he had each of the signs right, before he ever lifted his hands.

It took him a few moments, and for those long seconds, Scarlett watched him uneasily. With his mask in place, he knew she had no idea of what he was thinking, and at the moment it didn't seem like such a good thing after all.

[Scarlett,] he signed. Slow and careful, each gesture just right. [Do not be sorry for being alive. You are too alive to die.]

If Scarlett hated you, you knew it, usually courtesy of a fist to the gut. If she liked you, it wasn't usually so easy to tell; her time in military intelligence had conditioned her against expressing too many feelings of that type. And months ago—before the accident—she had shown affection for him, and he for her in turn. He remembered the feel of her lips against his, the way her fingers threaded through his hair. Now, still tentative, she only put a hand on his arm.

"Thank you," she repeated simply. For a moment, he thought that was all. Then:

"But if we're going to say anything more about this . . . I'd rather talk face-to-face, Snake."

That was a big request, these days. His gaze flicked around the room, picking out the obstacles, noting that they still stood within the security camera's blind spot, making sure that nobody was watching . . . all depressingly familiar actions in recent months. The scan confirmed what he remembered from before: the dojo would be used for hand-to-hand courses, but outside of those times, only he and Scarlett came there. They were safe enough.

Just to be sure, though, he made sure the door was closed and latched. Then, her hand still on his arm, he slipped his own under the slick black fabric and slid the mask off.

With her so close, Snake-Eyes could see himself reflected in her eyes. He looked ruined: a mottled patchwork of red grafts and white scarring, ranging from merely ugly on the right side of his face to outright mutilated on the left, which had faced the helicopter window. His helmet had afforded some protection from the worst of the blast, but nobody survived having their head set on fire without some side effects, and his hair was only just beginning to grow back. Male pattern baldness was one thing, but most men don't have their hairline start four inches above their left ear, especially not when there wasn't much of that ear left. He almost flinched at the reflection. Scarlett didn't.

Her fingertips ghosted over the scars, and Snake-Eyes couldn't suppress a momentary shiver. The numb patches on his face felt only the slightest pressure, but as her fingers stroked down the ruined line of his cheek, she didn't shy away from any of it. And where the skin hadn't been quite so badly mangled, the sensation of touch seemed ten times stronger than it had ever been before. Her hand was warm, but on Snake-Eyes' wreck of a face, it almost burned.

He caught her hand before it could go far—half in the name of regaining his composure, half because some quiet little part of him wanted to know if it would feel just as good clenched in his. Through his gloves, the grip of her fingers was only a soft squeeze, but the warmth was still there.

[Scarlett,] he signed. Then, slowly, he raised a hand and made the sign he had invented for her real name: the lettersign S, made over his forehead like a benediction.

"I'm sorry," she said again—catching herself, embarrassed a little at her outré behavior. "It's good to see you again."

[I did not go away-] He stopped for a moment, considering his words. He had never been talkative, but now it seemed as if he was talking too much. [I do not want to go away,] he amended.

Scarlett smiled up at him, her blue eyes bright. For a moment, Snake-Eyes couldn't see his reflection any more: there was a momentary blurring before she freed one hand and briskly wiped away what looked like the beginnings of tears. "Good," she said teasingly. "Because if you do, I can make you regret it. I kicked your butt in our first day of hand-to-hand, remember?"

For the first time in months, Snake-Eyes laughed. It didn't sound like a laugh: with his voice box ruined, the only sound that came out was a harsh wheezing noise. But he was still making a noise—surprising even himself, which somehow only made him laugh more. Scarlett jumped at the sound, but relaxed when she realized what he was doing, and gave him a playful punch in the shoulder while he fought to regain his breath. [Yes,] he signed weakly. [You are T-E-R-R-I-F-Y-I-N-G. Very T-O-U-G-H.]

And, because in that moment he felt more alive than he had since the helicopter crash, he caught his breath and kissed her.

A shocked yelp died stillborn as his lips touched hers. She was just as she had ever been—her skin soft, almost velvety, against his. But she seemed too stunned to react, and Snake-Eyes was about to pull back of his own accord (idiot! _Dekai guzu! _What were you thinking?) when she lowered her head a little and freed herself.

She didn't leave, though. And she didn't kick him, which frankly, he had been expecting. Sighing a little, she put a hand on his cheek and stroked her thumb over the jawline. Her touch made Snake-Eyes shiver a bit, and she smiled up at him.

"I missed you, Snake," she said.

Their few kisses before had been sweet and a little tentative, but there was nothing tentative about the way Scarlett kissed him now. She was soft, and she was strong, and the eagerness in the touch of her full lips sent electricity skittering over the ninja's skin. Snake-Eyes moved without thinking, his hands cupping Scarlett's waist where her sweat-soaked tank top didn't quite meet the waistband of her shorts, one gloved hand stroking a thumb over the sleek curve of her hip. Even through the material he could feel the smoothness of her skin, with the muscles underlying it like bands of iron wrapped in silk.

Scarlett's low moan turned into a purr as he moved lower, trailing kisses over the line of her jaw and down her neck. When the scarred corner of his mouth flicked against a sensitive pulse point, she shivered just a little, the skin trembling under Snake-Eyes' touch. He drank in that sensation and pushed for it again, nipping at the spot until the purr became almost a whine of frustration. Moving almost unconsciously, she pressed closer to him. His heart pounded, and he could feel hers too, thudding beneath the soft curve of her breasts.

Somehow, she had wound up pinned against the door of the dojo, and neither of them were quite sure how it had happened. Neither were complaining. Her wrists were locked in his grip, and she fought a little, mewling as Snake-Eyes took his advantage and pressed for more, deepening the kiss. When he pulled back again, though, wondering if he'd crossed a line, she glared up at him through half-closed eyes. Her lips were swollen, a lush pink that, together with her tousled red hair, made her look almost too good to be real.

"If you stop now," she growled in a low voice, "I am _never _going to forgive you."

He almost laughed again, but his hands were still clamped around her wrists and her breath was warm against his naked face. Power? Seeking for control? He felt like he was drowning, but at the same time, he had never been more alive. It felt like the frozen moment between seeing the attack and moving to block it, the heartbeat in time when he knew the trap was about to spring. A simple fight for his life would never have raised his pulse so high. _Shana_-

There was nothing he could say. Even before the accident, he had never been much for words, and even if he could have thought of something to sign, his hands were much more agreeably occupied.

Snake-Eyes reluctantly freed her wrists even as he kissed her again. His fingers crept up under the hem of the tank top, traveling further than he'd ever dared to go before, but Scarlett wasn't stopping him. Her arms were wrapped around him, her heart thudding wildly against him, her hair falling out of the remains of its knot. Even as she urged him closer than ever, he reluctantly left her mouth and returned his attention to that pulse point in her neck. The ninja becomes a master of his environment only through intense study . . .

He knew that mewl, now, the sound that she made when rough scars scraped delicate skin. But when his hands brushed over the tips of her breasts, the soft suede and friction pads of his gloves teasing the peaks there, her breath hitched in her throat and she flung her head back, thudding against the door of the dojo. _"Goddammit, Snake," _she whispered hoarsely. He smiled against her neck. "I'm going to pay you back for that, you son of a . . ."

But before she could make good on her threat, Snake-Eyes froze. A second later, Scarlett did too, her ears picking up on what his had already detected. Footsteps, heading down the hallway. The dojo was at the end of the hall, and if the footsteps hadn't stopped in the supply rooms on either side, then they were about to have a visitor.

"Dammit," Scarlett repeated, grimacing weakly. Her head flopped back again as she closed her eyes. "That must be Inkblot."

A greenshirt, and Hawk's current executive aide. Right now, the one person Snake-Eyes hated most in the world. He silently cursed the greenie as the two of them quickly separated, rearranging their clothes—and in Scarlett's case, brushing her hair down over her shoulders to hide a small bite mark that the ninja had left in his enthusiasm. She unlocked the door as Snake-Eyes retreated to a safe distance and pulled his mask back on.

"I'm sorry, Snake-Eyes," she said, her voice slipping into a cheerful but neutral tone. Snake-Eyes, feeling the heat roil in his muscles as he watched her, had to admire her restraint. He was this close to incapacitating the intruder, fellow Joe or not. "I have a meeting with General Hawk at 1800 hours, but he said he'd send Inkblot to fetch me early if there was something extra early."

Speak of the devil: the door opened, and Inkblot came in, blinking a little in the bright lights of the dojo. His mouth was already open, forming the first syllable of the word "Scarlett," when he spotted Snake-Eyes lurking by the wall and jumped visibly. "S-sergeant," he managed, offering a shaky salute. "The general—he, um, he said-" His message was for Scarlett, but his eyes were fixed on the ninja. Snake-Eyes, still not willing to forgive him, fingered one of his knives meaningfully. The greenshirt turned white.

"I'll be right there, Inkblot," Scarlett said. She turned to Snake-Eyes, putting her back to the greenshirt. The smile she gave Snake-Eyes was a little shaky itself, her lips still pink from their exertions, but her eyes were bright. "Sorry about that, Snake-Eyes. I have to leave now. Oh-before I go, let me try that sign again, okay?"

_Sign? _Snake-Eyes nodded, not sure of what she was planning. She smiled again, a little more slyly, as she began a complex series of signs. To Inkblot they would have been so much gibberish, but to Snake-Eyes they said something very different. Namely:

[I'll be in my room again by 1845. Meet me there?]

"Did I get it right?" she said. Snake-Eyes, taking a deep breath, nodded.

[You got it very, very R-I-G-H-T,] he signed as calmly as he could.

"Thanks, Snake," she said. And pressing a hand to his, she reluctantly turned to Inkblot, who was still eyeing the ninja as if Snake-Eyes was about to murder him. As Snake himself stepped back into the shadows at the edge of the dojo, Scarlett steered the nervous aide out of the room.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** Goodbye, frat regs. We hardly knew ye.

Thanks to all my reviewers who have stuck with me so far! I'm really glad you folks seem to be enjoying this, especially since this is such an unusual thing for me to be writing. Hope I don't disappoint. Only the epilogue to go . . .

Also, a big thank-you goes out to to **Irish12345, **who spotted a continuity error that I had been utterly boneheaded about. Unfortunately, I get the feeling that if I changed it while I was still working on the story, it might cause more continuity errors and kill the flow. This means that I'm going to carry on making the error (oy vey, Beach Head would not be pleased with that kind of laxity) until the story is complete, at which point I'll go back and make the changes in all the chapters at once.

If anybody has the sergeant major's number, please ask him not to murder me. Please. Dead Totenkinder Madchen would mean no epilogue.

Speaking of not being murdered—no slights to Midwestern cooking intended. If you grow up eating a lot of hotdish, though (like I did) everything even slightly out of the norm tastes foreign to you. And you can't tell me he had a damn spice rack in that cabin of his.

**Rating:** M.

**Disclaimer:** G.I. Joe and all associated characters and concepts are property of Hasbro Inc., and I derive no profit from this. Please accept this in the spirit with which it is offered—as a work of respect and love, not an attempt to claim ownership or earn money from this intellectual property.

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**Chapter ****Four  


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Snake-Eyes was a commando and a ninja. By twenty, he had seen more death than most people see their entire lives. And despite his small-town upbringing, he was far from naïve: spend enough time in Saigon, or even in the students' dormitories at the Arashikage compound, and you're quickly disabused of any lingering notions about propriety.

As a rule, though, his knowledge and experience of most good things came with equal amounts of bad luck. Even Tommy—Tommy, the eternally optimistic, the sarcastic bastard confident in his own ability to make the world bend to his will—had commented on it. Throwing snake-eyes was supposed to be the losing symbol. Even if Snake himself was an uncommonly skilled ninja, capable of gutting a man faster than that man could blink, he had only come to ninja training in the first place because he had nothing else left. His bad luck should have dictated that Shana O'Hara might be grateful for his saving of her life, but wouldn't want anything more from a man who now looked like the walking dead. As her footsteps faded away down the hallway, Snake-Eyes stood alone in the dojo, conscious of waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Still—until that inevitable moment, it would be one of the best things that had ever happened to him. If the loss of his face had kept Scarlett alive and one more grave in Arlington empty, then it was proof that good could still come from bad. That was his reasoning, anyway.

But as he braced himself against the wall and began to climb upwards, levering aside the grate in the corner of the ceiling and slipping into the ventilation shaft, he knew he was lying again. He'd gotten good at that. In his arms, with her lips against his and the feeling of her skin under his hands, Snake-Eyes had gone a little crazy. Maybe he still was. But he wanted more, desperately, and he would do almost anything to find himself there again. And if to get it, he had to tell himself that it wouldn't all break down eventually—well, he'd do it.

Time passed far too slowly. Snake-Eyes passed it meditating in the ventilation ducts, sitting in lotus at the intersection between two of the largest shafts and trying to clear his head. A ninja was a master of his environment. A ninja was a master of himself. A ninja could assume a cleansing trance or a healing coma at will, and certainly did not count the seconds. Ever.

Finally, incapable of concentrating and hoping desperately for a distraction, Snake-Eyes climbed upwards two levels and slipped into the smaller duct just above General Hawk's office. Even here, though, the ducts were still large enough to admit a person. He battled briefly over whether to tell the general that assassins could get in this way, or to keep the secret to himself and have the perfect opportunity to eavesdrop whenever he wanted to . . .

It couldn't keep him distracted for long, though. One of the dangers of being too efficient. Puffing out an angry breath, Snake-Eyes flattened himself against the ground and peered down through the slits in the grate.

Scarlett was sitting in front of Hawk's desk, legs crossed, her hands resting on the arms of the chair. She was giving a personnel report, it sounded like: reviewing the status of G.I. Joe and recommending courses of action in various cases. Two of the greenshirts they had scouted for the armored division were turning out to be utterly unsuitable and would have to be replaced as soon as possible. They should encourage tech training in all Joes, especially for sensitive undercover operations: Breaker was a brilliant technician but, in her professional opinion, about as subtle as a tap-dancing rhinoceros.

"And frankly, sir," she said, shaking her head a little, "we need a PT instructor. Badly."

"I was afraid of that," Hawk replied. Snake-Eyes couldn't quite spot him at this angle, but he could see the general's fingers, knit together where they rested on the desk. It was definitely a security risk: the extremities, especially ones with such high rates of bloodflow as the fingers and hands, were viable targets for poisoned darts. "How bad is it, Scarlett?"

She shook her head. "It's not good, sir. We're shaping as best we can for the time being, but no unit runs well without a designated instructor. We need somebody specific we can hate for dragging us out at six AM, sir."

There was a laugh from the general. "Good news on that front, then. I just received confirmation that we have an interested party. Sgt. Slaughter. Do you know him?"

"Only by reputation, sir."

"What do you think of him, then?"

"I think we could definitely hate him, sir."

"Good for us. Unfortunately-" the hands shuffled a couple of papers, and Snake-Eyes heard Hawk sigh. "Where was it—damn paperwork. Unfortunately, Slaughter is committed . . ."

"About time, sir."

Her deadpan statement elicited two laughs this time—one from the general, and one from Snake-Eyes. Twice in less than an hour? He put a hand over his mouth and froze in place, still not quite ready to believe that he had heard himself make a sound again—even if it was just the hoarse wheeze that seemed to be the only way he could laugh. Hell, he wasn't even ready to believe that he was finding things to laugh at. Silently cursing his loss of focus, he forced himself to stay silent and listen, searching for indications that they had heard him. But no, Hawk was talking again, and Scarlett's eyes were still focused on Hawk.

"-committed to his current post for a further six months." More paper shuffling. The general's tone was dry. "Am I going to have a problem with insubordination here, Scarlett?"

"No, sir."

"Look, sergeant." A sigh from General Hawk. "I went into this unit with my eyes open. There's only a few of you so far, and I'm already surprised we had that many lunatics in the United States military. Unit specifications call for an operating force of forty. I'm not going to pretend I can keep that many under control, so be careful.

"It's hard to crack down on bad behavior. The way things are set up right now, if someone making fun of an instructor or otherwise breaking regs isn't caught by someone ranking them, it's as if the incident never happened. A bad system, but it's the only one we've got." Snake-Eyes could practically see the meaningful eyebrow-raising, and took a breath to keep himself from laughing again. He knew he liked Hawk for a reason.

"Understood, sir. I apologize for speaking out of turn. I'm sure Sgt. Slaughter will be an excellent PT instructor."

"When he's finally free to join our little asylum, that is. In the meantime, the hand-to-hand sessions and interim PT instructors will have to do. And speaking of hand-to-hand . . ." Hawk's voice was casual, but not casual enough to fool the silent eavesdropper. The ninja's eyes narrowed slightly behind the mask. "How's our commando doing?"

"Sir?"

Snake-Eyes made a mental note to work with Scarlett on her breathing control. Her facade was good, but he could hear her the rhythm of her breathing change, and even if Hawk couldn't spot it, a ninja could. Who knew if she might encounter one of the lost Arashikage students some day? Better safe than sorry.

"Snake-Eyes." The general wasn't buying it either, but probably for different reasons. Snake-Eyes mentally chalked up a couple more points to the man's deduction skill. "He won't talk to the medics, but he has to teach hand-to-hand with you. How's he doing? Am I going to have an insane commando on my hands?"

Two pairs of eyes were resting on Scarlett now. Lying flat in the vent, Snake-Eyes forced himself to remain detached, sternly ordering the tension to leave his muscles.

Once, a long time ago, his mother had caught him lurking in the bushes and listening in on a telephone conversation that his grandfather was having. She'd hauled him bodily out of the shrubbery and made him apologize: eavesdropping, she said, was "uncivilized." Her words. It might have amused her to know that, thanks to one of the oldest civilizations still existing on the planet, her son was now the most effective eavesdropper in the entire United States.

He could hear the faintest note of nervousness in Scarlett's voice as Hawk questioned her. Worried? Apprehensive? It was difficult to tell: she controlled herself wonderfully.

"No lie, sir," she said. "He's been better."

"That much I knew. I've got half a dozen incident reports in my inbox right now, mostly from greenshirts complaining about the ghost in black now apparently haunting this base. Give it to me straight, sergeant. Is he cracking up?"

"No, sir." Snake-Eyes might have expected some hesitation, and from the looks of it the general had too, but her answer was heartfelt and direct. "I've spoken to him today, actually. I think he was just having fun, sir."

"Having fun." The general sounded weary. "Well, I'm not sure what else we can expect from someone who had a pet wolf. Thank you, sergeant. That'll be all."

"Yes, sir." She stood, saluted, and left the office. Moving soundlessly (the new skinsuit lived up to its reputation), Snake-Eyes slid past the vent and followed her.

She dropped off a report with Breaker and then headed towards her room, walking briskly. When she reached the door of her billet, though, she stopped for a moment and took a deep breath, rolling her shoulders as if to steady her nerves. She bit her lip as the door slid open.

When she saw that the room was empty, she let out a little sigh. Her shoulders slumped a bit, and she turned back towards the door. Her way was blocked, however, by the ninja which had just dropped down out of the ceiling.

"_Jey_sus Key_rist!" _The Georgia came back into her voice in full force as Scarlett jumped, almost hopping back a couple of steps. She put a hand to her heart and shook her head, trying to calm herself.

[Sorry!] Snake-Eyes signed quickly. [I did not T-H-I-N-K you would T-U-R-N.]

"Okay . . . you got me that time, Snake." She puffed out a breath and looked up at the ceiling. "Ventilation ducts?"

[Not big enough in Q-U-A-R-T-E-R-S. I was in the M-A-N-T-E-N-E-N-C-E S-H-A-F-T.] That drew a grin from her, surprising Snake-Eyes a little. [W-H-A-T?]

"You misspelled 'maintenance,'" Scarlett pointed out. The ninja shook his head in mild exasperation. He had never been very good at spelling, frankly, but it hadn't hampered his ability to communicate before. Scarlett seemed to see his annoyance, though, because she moved to change the subject.

"Don't mind me. I was just teasing." She tucked her hands into her pockets, still smiling a bit. "Is everything all right? Why were you in the maintenance shaft, anyway?"

This was a good tack to take: common and conversational, as if nothing had happened before. Snake-Eyes had been annoyed and impatient during the meeting, waiting for General Hawk to be quiet so that he could have Scarlett all to himself again, but now that they were face-to-face again it was suddenly awkward. Less than an hour ago, he had had her pressed up against the door of the dojo, and now he was fumbling just to communicate. He shook his head again, trying to clear his thoughts.

[I was . . . ] What had he been doing, anyway? Spying. Blatantly. [S-N-E-A-K-I-N-G.]

Scarlett quirked an eyebrow. She wasn't buying it, and Snake-Eyes could tell she wasn't—but she didn't ask. For a moment, there was a strained quiet in the small room. Snake-Eyes couldn't quite meet her eyes, and Scarlett crossed her arms, seemingly on the verge of saying something but unsure of how to continue.

Finally, she broke the silence with a shake of her head. "Look at us, Snake," she said softly. "Right back to square one. Like kids."

Come to think of it, this particular breed of awkwardness was a bit familiar. He smiled a little under his mask, amused despite himself by the whole business. [Like S-C-H-O-O-L,] he signed.

"Too much like it." She brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. "I was actually pretty shy back then, you know. My sister was the social butterfly. Me, I never would've had the guts to talk to the big campus ninja."

Another laugh—and it was startling, how easily they were coming now. Scarlett grinned again, just a little, as Snake-Eyes caught his breath. [You,] he signed, pointing a threatening finger at her, [will be death of me.]

Her lips tightened just a little, but almost before he caught the fleeting expression, it was gone again. "That's how the clan O'Hara shows affection," she joked, folding her hands and bowing mock-solemnly. "It is the way . . . of my people."

[C-A-R-E-F-U-L,] Snake-Eyes warned. [You do not W-A-N-T to S-T-A-R-T clan war.]

"Ninjas versus Georgians. I'd watch it." She crossed her arms, still smiling. "I have three brothers, all black belts." Snake-Eyes snorted, and she waved a hand. "All right, all right, we both know you could turn them all inside-out. But the O'Haras have cuisine on their side. My aunt alone could feed your entire clan into submission, easily."

[U-N-L-I-K-E-L-Y. Ninjas do not like S-P-I-C-Y food.]

Her jaw dropped, and for the first time, Snake-Eyes saw her genuinely flabbergasted. "Spicy? You actually think Southern . . ." The laugh bubbled up from deep inside her. "My God, Snake! I never knew a man who lost his taste buds in 'Nam before." She mopped her face, trying to catch her breath. "That's it. You've been deprived. Next time I have a day off, I'm kicking those poisoners they call cooks out of the kitchen and making some real food."

Snake-Eyes held up one hand defensively, signing with the other. [No. No. I C-O-N-C-E-D-E. A-N-Y-T-H-I-N-G but that!]

Still chuckling a little, Scarlett leaned back against the wall, crossing her arms. "My God," she repeated. "If only we could get a terrorist to knuckle under that easily."

It probably should have worried Snake-Eyes that, although he sometimes couldn't spell "maintenance," he knew the short-form ASL sign for "cruel and unusual punishment." And "violation of the Geneva Conventions." But they were both laughing, and it was hard to give a damn.

She was leaning against him when he tentatively ran one gloved hand through her hair. The practical knot she had worn in the dojo was completely gone by this time, and owing to the mark he had left on her neck, she hadn't pulled it back when she was meeting with General Hawk. Now he brushed the long red strands aside to reveal it: small, red fading to pink against her white skin. It might have been a birthmark or an insect bite. For a moment, her blush almost obscured it.

[Sorry,] he signed again. Scarlett put a hand on his, obscuring the little mark.

"Turnabout is fair play," she said softly.

Once again, her fingertips glided over the surface of his face. She slipped a hand under the mask—tentatively, almost fearfully—and pulled its edge up. Snake-Eyes lowered his head a little, watching her eyes as she tugged at the sleek fabric. Smooth fingers with the merest bite of harsh callouses left warmth in their wake as they pulled the mask away. A soft tug, and his face was once again bare to the world.

This time, she kissed him. The touch of her lips was as sweet now as it had been hungry before, barely a gentle brush that nevertheless left Snake-Eyes' heart pounding. Moving almost of their own accord, his hands moved upward, cradling her face between them. Their breaths were coming more quickly, sounding harsh in the enclosed space.

The mask slipped from her fingers and fell to the ground. Neither of them cared. Refusing to listen to his own pessimism, daring his bad luck to interfere now, Snake-Eyes wrapped his arms around her and deepened the kiss. The gentleness was beginning to slip away. She gave a soft little moan, low in her throat, and clutched at his shoulders even as she pressed herself against him. Her pulse fluttered wildly, more than it ever would have in a fight—and he knew, he felt like he knew _everything, _and bad luck be damned.

There was no more hesitation. Her hands shook a little, nervous and impatient, as she fumbled with the stiff clasp of his baldric. The strap gave, and the katana fell to the floor with a thud that would have made any other ninja wince at the disrespect shown to the weapon. Snake-Eyes didn't care. Scarlett wasn't going to win this one. He slid his hands up under her tank top, and Scarlett leaned back, raising her arms and letting him strip the shirt off her. Her bra quickly followed.

For a moment he paused in spite of himself: she was a sight like nothing else, wearing nothing but her dark green shorts, her skin creamy white and scattered with small bronze freckles. The temptation to seize her was almost overwhelming. Snake-Eyes was a ninja, though, and he was determined to learn everything.

He studied and tested her. The pulse point of the throat wasn't nearly enough any more; he wanted to hear the full range of her, the deep vibrato of the moans and the grace notes of the sighs. When he rolled a thumb over a pressure point, stroking it gently instead of striking, she shuddered just a little. A drop of sweat slid down her collarbone, and when he nipped at where it had gone, her breath caught her in throat with a hitch and she bit her tongue.

But Scarlett was never one to remain passive: she let out a low growl and caught his hand before it could go further. "Nice try, buster," she said. Her eyes were blazing. She put her palms on his chest and pushed, and Snake-Eyes found himself pressed back against the wall, her body sliding up against his. She let out a hiss of impatience as her roving hands encountered one of the knife-belts buckled around his waist.

"You, she murmured against his cheek, "wear far too many of these, Snake."

[Ninja. Prepared.] he managed to sign. She smiled up at him through heavily-lidded eyes as she unclipped the belt with an audible snap. More weapons tumbled to the ground, and she laughed a little at that. Snake-Eyes considered that a challenge.

Her laugh turned into a gasp as one gloved hand slid up her leg. There was a nerve cluster there, on the inside of the thigh, and his fingers glided expertly over the sensitive skin. Scarlett shuddered violently, biting her lip, breath coming fast. He could feel the tips of her breasts peak where they pressed against his chest, but his eyes were fixed on her face: the full, parted lips almost coral in color, the eyes dipping closed as he twisted his fingers just so . . .

She let out a shuddering breath and clutched at him, raggedly whispering something that even his hearing couldn't detect. Snake-Eyes, never any good with words, wanted nothing more than to kiss her again. But, reluctantly, he raised one hand to sign.

[If you want to S-T-O-] he began. He got no further. Scarlett took his hand in both of hers, peeling the glove away and pressing a kiss to the sensitive point at the center of the palm. Her tongue flickered against it, and for a moment, Snake-Eyes couldn't breathe.

That was answer enough. She wasn't small, but Snake-Eyes picked her up easily, her long velvety legs wrapping around his waist in an unconscious gesture that made it almost impossible for him to think. They tumbled onto the small bed, Scarlett beneath him. She caught the zipper of the skinsuit between trembling fingers, clumsy in her eagerness, while he tugged at the waistband of her shorts.

And she was whispering in his ear, her voice hoarse and thick with emotion, and he cut off those words with a kiss as he sank into her, and there was no helicopter or fire or Vietnam jungles, just him and Shana and the warmth and no more battles to fight.

* * *

They lay curled together, spent. The bed was too small for two people, but Scarlett was almost on top of him, and Snake-Eyes wouldn't have moved her for the world. Her could feel her heart fluttering against him, and the softness of her breath against the hollow of his throat. The once-sleek red hair, now completely disheveled, shone dully in the low light of the room.

With a sigh, she shifted a little and raised her head. Snake-Eyes caught himself tensing again, wondering if his bad luck was about to bite back, but she was smiling a little.

"Thank you," she said. "For everything."

His hands were resting in the hollow of her back, and even if he had wanted to move them, his tentative command of sign language had totally left him. Instead, he lowered his head a little, letting himself smile back. _I should be thanking you, _he mouthed. She caught the words and blushed a little.

"One of us had to do something. I think we were both going a little crazy." She sighed again and laid her head back down, but kept her eyes open. Her expression was almost wistful, and Snake-Eyes looked down at her, curious. Her next words surprised him.

"I'm not going to make a big deal out of this, Snake," she said quietly. "I know you like your privacy. No pressure."

He wasn't sure whether to be astonished or, frankly, a little offended. After a moment, though, he shook his head. _You changed your mind, _he said, and Scarlett's eyebrows shot up. _Before, you said I shouldn't be alone._

"It's just that . . . I meant . . ." She huffed out a breath and tilted her head, blinking as a strand of hair fell into her eyes. "That's not the same thing, Snake."

_I know what you meant, _he added. It felt strange to be speaking, even soundlessly—mouthing words and having her respond to them, his hands resting quietly on her back rather than fumbling their way through an awkward sign alphabet. One more little moment of normalcy, one more mask stripped off. _I don't do anything lightly, Shana. _

For a moment, Scarlett was still. Then she dipped her head, pressing a kiss against a shallow above his heart.

"I could tell, you know," she said. "The first day we were on the mats. You were too good. You let me win." It wasn't an accusation or a rebuke, just a simple statement of fact. "It's strange . . . caring so much about someone who can win that easily. With that kind of skill, I thought your life must be charmed."

_Right now, _he said, _I am._


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** I thought it appropriate to end with what is, in some ways, a prologue.

This scene is obviously based off "Silent Interlude." I had to add dialogue, obviously, but the whole idea was inspired by the scene where Scarlett and Storm Shadow are interacting in the water pit. It was a good story, but going back and reading it again with knowledge of who Storm Shadow would turn out to be lends a whole new cast to the scene. If Snake-Eyes hadn't gone after Scarlett (apparently secretly and against orders, given the dialogue in the following issue) then the two brothers wouldn't have met again so quickly. This precipitates Storm Shadow's whole character arc, and got me thinking . . .

Thanks for hanging in with me, everybody. I loved writing this story, and I hope you enjoyed reading it!

**Rating:** M.

**Disclaimer:** G.I. Joe and all associated characters and concepts are property of Hasbro Inc., and I derive no profit from this. Please accept this in the spirit with which it is offered—as a work of respect and love, not an attempt to claim ownership or earn money from this intellectual property.

* * *

**Epilogue: Beginnings**

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Good grief, but the redhead could fight! When he had swooped out of the clouds on the Cobra glider, ready to nab up the Joe that their intel had told them would be making a routine certification jump at that point, Storm Shadow hadn't been prepared for an insane harridan that had fought like a demon and almost blacked his eye before succumbing to the nerve touch. Not so impressive until you remembered that she was surprised, alone, thousands of feet above the ground, tangled in parachute straps and facing the Young Master of the Arashikage. And her language had been something else, too. He had to admire the guts, even if he still beat her.

He did not, however, have to admire the attitude. She regained consciousness about halfway to Destro's castle; oh, she didn't start squirming or yelling this time, but Storm Shadow's ears detected the subtle change in her heartbeat and breathing even through the tarp she was wrapped in. And when he dumped her in front of Cobra Commander and sliced the tarp open, she flinched a little but fixed the entire assembly with a cold glare, like they were workers she'd caught drinking on the back porch instead of cleaning out her gutters. Was it the South that produced nutcutting bitches, or just G.I. Joe? He wasn't going to ask.

It was, of course, Storm Shadow's job to haul the prisoner down to the cells. Never mind that he had already captured her, or that this was grunt work; no, nobody but the Commander's pet ninja (it had been Destro who used that phrase, and Storm Shadow was almost praying that the Scotch bastard would turn out to be the Hard Master's murderer, so he could fillet him with extreme prejudice) could take a Joe prisoner anyway. Cobra Commander was laughing his ass off over this particular captive, anyway—something about her apparently being close to one of the other Joes.

Storm Shadow remembered what one of his old DIs would have had to say about that . . . or the Hard Master, even. That was the Joes' bad luck. Probably the redhead's bad luck, too; a great many government agencies had a no-negotiation-with-terrorists policy, and Storm Shadow would bet good money that the Joes wouldn't be bargaining for their crazy woman back any time soon.

Destro's taste in dungeons ran to Pit-and-the-Pendulum-style setups—simple, but mostly effective. It tended to have a subduing effect on the prisoners, too. The redhead seemed less sure by the time Storm Shadow had chained her to the post in the middle of the water tank: her head was lowered, and though her expression was determinedly stoic, the ninja's hearing could detect a momentary fluttering of her heartbeat. Just a little fear, but it was there. Given what she'd put him through earlier, Storm Shadow was hardly objecting.

He stared down at her lowered head, his arms crossed over his chest. "Get comfortable," he said shortly. He didn't gloat or monologue the way Cobra Commander did, but he wasn't too proud to enjoy a minor victory over an irritating enemy. "You're going to be here a long time."

The heartrate changed, and he saw her bound fists clench just a little. "I really hope you're valuable to Cobra, mister," she said, her voice deceptively calm. The Southern accent was coming through more strongly, though, and Storm Shadow recognized the symptoms of well-controlled nervousness. "Because you're going to be in a heap of trouble when I get out."

Storm Shadow had had a long, bad day. It had started with the Baroness shrieking him out of his bunk at 0400 hours and had only gone downhill from there. He didn't want to be there in the first place, and he was under no illusions about the fact that he was honor-bound to serve a group of lunatic snake-themed terrorists. Maybe he can be excused for feeling a little sadistic.

"Dream on," he said bluntly, just a bit of satisfaction in his voice. "You know your government doesn't negotiate with terrorists. And if your boyfriend turns up, I'll slit his throat and dump him off the wall." He grinned a little. "That's what happens when you get on the wrong side of ninja, friend."

At that, the redhead looked up. "'My boyfriend,'" she began, the phrase laden with scornful sarcasm, "has a motto. 'The more a ninja talks, the less a ninja acts.'" Her lips twisted a little at the words. "So either find your balls and attack me, or go back to polishing your nice shiny sword."

Her captor was well-schooled in the intimidation of annoying prisoners. His hands were already halfway to her throat when his thoughts grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and screamed at him. He felt his own eyes widen involuntarily (a tell, and a bad one—the Hard Master would put him on three days' fast for that) as he realized what she had said. The hand that reached for her throat instead settled on her chin, pulling her face upwards. The redhead gasped a little as Storm Shadow leaned down, two sets of blue eyes meeting each other.

There were a lot of things he could think of to say right then. None of them made sense. And in the split-second between grabbing the prisoner's jaw and her gasp of surprise, they all ran through his head.

He remembered that phrase. It was one of the Soft Master's sayings, usually uttered with a grin or a wink. The Hard Master used it too, but as a reproof. Silence was a key of the Arashikage teachings—one reason that he had recommended a certain old Army buddy of his for membership in the school . . . And one reason why that same buddy had gotten so good so quickly. The laconic blond Ranger, who never gave anything away and slipped through life without leaving a trace on anything. Only two people had ever dared to repeat that saying back to the Masters' faces, and one of them had been the Young Master of the clan.

It was less than a heartbeat to the redhead, but to Storm Shadow, it seemed like years. Pieces fell into place. The Joes were supposed to have some kind of commando; the reports had called him a ninja, and though Storm Shadow had doubted them, there had been some proof that the man was capable. The only Joe that Cobra had never heard speak.

And in unconscious imitation of the friend he'd lost a long time ago, Storm Shadow could find nothing to say. He ran a thumb over the redhead's lip, staring her in the face. Brash, impulsive, chock-full of attitude and skill . . . yes, this would be the kind of girl his old sword-brother would-

Then her teeth sank into his hand, and Storm Shadow's split second of contemplation was abruptly truncated. He whipped his hand away, the other automatically flying for to his sword. It would be the work of a second to have her head off.

Looking back on it later, trying to see it from her perspective, Thomas Arashikage could probably guess what the girl had thought. A lecherous enemy ninja taking a look at her, then restraining himself from killing her because the Commander wanted his prize alive. It fit the narrative, sure.

Tommy had sworn an oath, and oaths and blood trumped the kind of brotherhood that comes from just being friends. He was a minion of Cobra now, with all the responsibilities that entailed. And while his carefully-worded vow of loyalty to the Commander had left him enough of a loophole to search for the Hard Master's killer, there was no way he could avoid murdering enemies of Cobra wherever they should be found. If he faced Snake-Eyes now, he would have to kill him. And given that they had last spoken in the Arashikage compound, trading barbs over the Hard Master's favoritism, just before that man had been shot—well, it would take a far more naïve man than Tommy to believe his old Army buddy would want to talk to him again.

That didn't mean that he had to abuse his brother's girl, though. He could probably have gotten away with it, given his standing in Cobra, and he later rationalized his treatment of her by pulling the old "valuable prisoner" card. Sentimentality had no place in his business. But the crazy redhead was a reminder, both welcome and painful, of a world that Tommy had closed himself off from years before.

Much later, bandaging his wounds and rewinding the strips of cloth over his clan tattoo, he thought about Vietnam.


End file.
